Questions
by Idiot Jello
Summary: Rose has a question for the Doctor. Inspired by the 'she knows' line in The Impossible Planet.


**_A/N_**: I have just realized Rose Tyler and I share the same intials. I am very happy about this. I wrote this a few days ago and posted it on my newly-acquired LJ (in which I am also listed as 'idiot_jello') and I'd figured that I'd get better reception here.

Anways...I've also realized I can't write an annoyed Doctor without him sounding like Nine. Whoop-dee-doo.

Enjoy. :P

* * *

"_If you talk to Rose, just tell her…tell her…oh, she knows."_

0000

"Doctor, I've got a question," five words sound from the jump seat above him; five words that have haunted him ever since he had started whisking away such curious minds on his adventures. Usually he loves answering questions, flaunting his knowledge and inter-species know-how like it was a prize-winning pig. Unfortunately, ever since he'd picked up this inquisitive blonde, answering such inquiries had been that much more difficult to answer.

"Yes?" He allows from under the TARDIS console.

"Why isn't the snow on Christmas ever like real, proper snow? Not just ashes or 'atmospheric disturbances' or whatever?" He glances in the direction of her voice, and catches a glimpse of the sole of her trainers before they disappear behind the metal bar. Was she swinging her legs? The thought inspires a warmth in his chest and he goes back to sonicing the worn wires that make up the underbelly of the console.

"Well, that would be a cliché," he answers with a smirk.

There is a pause in their banter as Rose considers this theory, and the jump seat creaks as she shifts her position, bringing up her feet onto the cushion. "Right," she says in the tone that is usually used when she tells him that he is 'full of it.' 'Full of it,' he is sure, _actually _means: 'full of great Time Lord knowledge with an extra dose of sexyness.'

The Doctor doesn't respond to her subtle doubting, and she doesn't say anything else, and the remaining silence is not a silence at all: but a wonderful harmony of the TARDIS's humming, the buzzing of his sonic screw driver, and the shuffling of paper as Rose leaves through her magazines. All of this is lined with the underlying tone of companionship between the three.

"Doctor?" Rose commands his attention once more. He lets a tired 'yeah?' escape his lips, and she ploughs forward with her question. "Do Daleks speak German? I mean, what if they decide to invade Germany? Would they go 'Exterminieren' or something like that?"

He sighs. "D'you have any other pointless questions to ask me? Can we just get them over and done with now? Done-done, with the cute sprig of parsley on top? I do love that parsley. That, y'know, is actually completely of human origin. Parsley doesn't grow on any other planet, you know. People have tried, oh yes they have, but they can't grow it natural. They have to use these things called growth-drons, and parsley from _those _monstrosities just never tastes the same as the natural stuff. What was I saying? Ah yes. Parsley. It adds such an elegant feel to any dish, doncha think?"

"Doctor."

"Oh yes, you have a question, didn't you?" He hears her sigh, and is hopeful for a moment she would drop it. But she doesn't.

"Yeah. I do. Why, d'you think, Cassandra kissed you? I mean, sure, if I was going on one hundred or however old she is, and I just got a fancy young body—which, I will point out, does not resemble a trampoline in any way or fashion—I'd kiss the first young, good-looking guy in the room. But why do you think she did? I mean, she must've known it would have provoked your suspicions. It's not exactly like we exchange smoochies regularly, y'know?"

"You think I'm good looking?" is the first thought that appears in his head, and consequently, is the first sentence blurted out of his mouth.

A rather undignified noise comes from the jump seat, which, the Doctor knows, under no circumstance is to be referred to as a snort. "I said all of that and that's all you got out of it?"

Instead of replying to that little comment, he instead spouts out a rush of syllables that he isn't quite sure applies to the situation. He's right in that discerning.

"Doctor, d'you realize you just dissected a nineteenth century poem from Belgium, not the country but the planet?" Rose informs him of this with all the false innocence in the world.

"…Yes."

There's another relative silence in which he hears Rose struggle to repress the rush of giggles that erupted from her mouth of a tinkling melody.

"Anyways, I don't think Cassandra would've kissed you unless she thought we were…y'know, _together_, cue italics and the reddening of cheeks together. So I guess we just are like that."

"Oh, absolutely," he says, "We just emit italicized words and it's an off day when you don't blush over something I've said or _you_ imply something ridiculously human in its suggestiveness."

"Are you trying to avoid the subject by insulting my species?" accuses Rose. "'Cause it's not working. You and I both know what you said was absolutely _true_." She trills on the last note like she's singing Broadway, and he just knows that she isn't trying to exhibit her crooning skills but, in all likeliness, mocking him.

"Rose Tyler," he wriggles out from his place under the console and sits up to look at her in the eye, hoping to scare her off. "Are you implying that we're a _couple_?"

She smiles wide as she meets his gaze. "What do you think?" she asks, insecurity flashing amidst playfulness in her irises.

The Doctor grins back at her as he starts to lift himself off the metal grating. "Well, I'd say that no, we're not a couple. We only appear to be one." By now he is standing above her, all the while maintaining his smile even though hers has weakened considerably. "Though, I suppose, we could become one," now is grin is wolfish, "if you want."

"If _I_ want?" she breathes.

"I do whatever Rose Tyler wants," he explains as he corners her, leaning in close so that he inhales her scent: peaches, with a dash of something warm that he can't come up with, but imagines to be positively fantastic to taste.

"Any why is that?"

"Oh," he murmurs so quietly, determined to keep it their secret to the universe, "only because of three little words she already knows."

0000

As he plunges in hell, there is only a second before he will hit the ground that will decide his fate. He can't think of anything at all but the black and the cold and he wishes, in that instant before he meets fate, that his sun was with him.


End file.
